A Butterfly Through the Mist - Chapter 77

“Who doesn’t know this professor gives weekly quizzes? It’s all in the syllabus.”

Tilia looked down at him as if she were staring at a rabid dog before swiftly grabbing her bag.

“Don’t talk to me. Annoying.”

Then, as if disgusted that he had dared to speak to her, she coldly walked away.

Left behind in the lecture hall, where only the lingering scent of flowers remained, Ilex sat blankly, staring at the empty seat beside him.

Ah, the syllabus. Right. That was a piece of paper with such information.

Only now did he realize that his words must have seemed to her like a transparent excuse just to start a conversation.

And the truth was, she had been completely right.

“……”

Like a pet dog experiencing its first kick, Ilex remained frozen in shock, unable to shake off the daze from the unexpected blow.

***

He wandered for a long time after that. The observation journal he had kept on Tilia—where he recorded pages of notes daily—remained untouched for three whole days.

The shock was that great. The heartbreak and pain were vivid. Yet at the same time, a sense of injustice flared up within him.

Why?

Lying facedown on the bed like a dead fish, Ilex suddenly bolted upright and ran a hand through his already unkempt face.

He understood why Tilia had been annoyed. She genuinely despised men who made advances on her.

What he had done was a mistake—one that closely resembled the behavior of the men she loathed. He acknowledged that he deserved her disdain.

But still, it wasn’t something deserving of that much hatred.

Ilex clenched and unclenched his fists in frustration.

For a long time, he had meticulously observed Tilia. That was why he knew for certain.

The hostility she had shown toward him was far too deep for a mere attempt at conversation.

Like a researcher studying wild animals, Ilex had categorized Tilia Ambrose’s levels of hatred.

By his calculations, he should only have reached about level 2.5 on her scale of dislike. He had made just one mistake, and even that was relatively minor—something that could be overlooked with a little leniency.

At most, he should have been labeled as “a truly annoying bastard.”

But in her beautiful green eyes, the signals he had seen were at level 5.

Why? What had I done to deserve the same level of loathing as Gregory Myers? What exactly did I do?

His body sank back onto the bed as if it were collapsing. He placed an arm over his eyes and exhaled heavily, as though trying to expel all the air from his lungs.

There was no way she had sensed his feelings. He had buried them deep like a mole, hidden in a place no one could reach.

It was also unlikely that she had noticed his relentless observations. Even that insufferable Cecilia Clayton had never caught on to his discreet surveillance.

It wasn’t that his affections had been exposed. It wasn’t that his secret, shadowed watchfulness had been discovered.

Then why…?

Ilex’s broad shoulders slumped in dejection.

Samuel Jennings was better off. At least he had confessed. At least he had been rejected after trying.

He couldn’t forget the way those green eyes had looked at him—as if he were a bug with its insides spilling out.

Once again, he had lost without even getting a chance to fight.

***

It was a week later that Ilex finally learned the real reason Tilia hated him.

Only after overhearing a conversation about himself from Tilia’s closest friend did he put the pieces together.

Rumors. Of course, that was the problem. She had heard the widespread rumors about Ilex Davenport at the academy and come to hate him because of them.

His betrothal had been arranged based on mutual benefits, yet Cecilia Clayton was a truly repulsive woman.

From a very young age, she had coveted him. She hadn’t just set her sights on him as a fiancé—she had wanted to own and control him entirely.

Naturally, he ignored her. Even his father’s scoldings about treating his betrothed properly went in one ear and out the other.

But when her usual tantrums failed to work, Cecilia, growing more desperate, resorted to even more underhanded tactics to assert her possessiveness.

The most notorious scumbag of Arkansis Royal Academy. The most distinguished womanizer.

The disgusting rumors about him had all been planted by Cecilia Clayton, who sought to monopolize him—even if it meant destroying him in the process.

He had always known those filthy rumors spread like wildfire behind his back.

But he had never cared. He had never felt the need to correct them.

Those rumors had never affected him in any way. If anything, at times, he had even found them rather useful.

The rumors that had spread far and wide under his indifference had actually granted him freedom.

Occasionally, some crazed women would approach him, handing over keys or similar trinkets, or trash who thought themselves alike to him would pretend to be friendly. But ignoring them was enough.

He preferred the position of an outcast, someone whom no one approached. It was nice being able to lie alone by the quiet lakeside.

That was how it had been—until, for the first time in his life, he felt the desire to look good in front of a woman his own age.

Even knowing it was his own negligence that allowed those rumors to persist, Ilex ground his teeth in frustration.

He had never cared about his reputation before, but now, suddenly, he did. He regretted not putting a stop to it earlier.

He should have corrected it. He should have denied it. He should have lashed out at Cecilia Clayton, forced her to confess the truth.

He had lived his life as if nothing mattered, indifferent to everything, and now that very indifference had come back to strangle him.

But regret, no matter how deep, was always too late.

He knew all too well how stubbornly Tilia held onto her opinions once they were set. Because of that, he couldn’t even bring himself to offer a single excuse. Like a fool, he could only circle around her, unable to say a word.

***

“Young Master, your complexion looks terrible.”

Benjamin Rogers, the butler of the Essentine estate, examined his young master’s face with concern.

Ilex, sprawled out like discarded clothes on the daybed in the elegant drawing room, answered without even opening his eyes.

“Mind your own business.”

Despite the rude remark, the old butler showed no sign of being offended. He simply continued looking at Ilex with a worried expression.

Finally, after enduring the gaze for some time, Ilex let out a deep sigh and sat up.

“Coffee.”

“Yes, I will bring you some warm tea.”

The butler’s response was just as insolent. One of the veteran maids, who had been listening to their exchange, immediately turned and headed for the kitchen.

“What kind of master can’t even get a simple cup of coffee?”

Irritated, Ilex grumbled but made no move to dismiss the butler or the maids. No, he couldn’t.

Everything in the Essentine estate was a precious inheritance from his grandfather.

The Davenport family owned multiple estates, but among them, there was only one Ilex truly considered a home—Essentine. It was the only place where he knew the names of the servants.

Preston Davenport, the late Duke and Ilex’s grandfather, was the man who had helped solidify the Davenport name as one of the most prestigious noble families in Arkansis.

He was quick to hire professional managers for the family business, minimizing losses from investment failures. Politically, though he was far down the line of succession, he aligned early with the first princess, recognizing her as a strong candidate for the throne, thus securing his influence.

Yet, for all his excellence as a duke, he had utterly failed as a father.

Ilex lifted his gaze toward the mantelpiece in the drawing room, where a family portrait hung—a painting from the rare time when the previous Duke’s family had been somewhat harmonious.

The former Duchess, Agatha Davenport, sat in a chair with a gentle expression. Beside her, seated in another chair, was the robustly built previous Duke. Behind them stood the current Duke, Edmund, and his younger brother, Kenneth, maintaining a subtle distance between them.

Ilex’s gaze passed over his father’s rigid expression and landed on the man standing beside him, smiling warmly.

Kenneth Davenport, the uncle he had never met, had died in an unfortunate accident before Edmund had even inherited the dukedom.

The young man in the painting, forever frozen in youth, wore a kind smile that tugged at something in Ilex’s chest.

Blond hair and gray-blue eyes. Even if not for those features, they looked remarkably alike.

Perhaps that was why his grandfather, having ceded the dukedom early to his eldest son, had cherished his second grandson as if he were his own lost child.

In a household where cold indifference seemed hereditary, his grandfather had been the only one to show him love.

He was the only one who praised Ilex’s perfect test scores, the only one who had saved him from the barn where Gilbert’s cruel pranks had left him locked up.

If there had been a single person in the entire Davenport family who had truly loved him, it was his grandfather.

Only much later did he realize that his grandfather’s affection had only fueled his father and brother’s deep-seated inferiority complex.

Now, gazing at the portrait of a once-great household reduced to just one remaining heir, Ilex slowly opened his mouth.

“I want to visit Grandfather’s room. Is it ready?”